


Waking Life

by Daegaer



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Anthropomorphic Personifications, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-30
Updated: 2009-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:13:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Germany dreams. A series of ten drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Life

"Wow, you're so good at making cars, Germany!"

Germany emerged from beneath the bonnet of the car and wiped his hands on a rag. "Well, they're practical," he said, sounding like he'd said _they're beautiful_. "Good, solid pieces for me to put together. Not all of us can have thin, artist's hands, Italy."

Italy looked at his own hands and at Germany's. "I like yours," he said, putting their palms together, measuring his hand against Germany's squarer, wider one. "They're very sensible."

"Sensible," Germany said, shaking his head. "You have strange ideas."

He sounded like he'd been paid a compliment.

*

 

_He is swimming in a cold, deep river. The water tastes fresher than anything he can remember, and the day is so quiet. The sunlight is bright and hot; the only sound is him, splashing about. He treads water and watches a dragonfly hover above his head, iridescent blue and the gleam of wings._

_He knows how this dream will go. _

_The sunlight and the clean water will fade into the mud of the battlefield, the movement of the insect's wings into the deadly flight of shells. He has had such dreams often._

_The day stays quiet. He keeps swimming._

 

*

 

"You're my best friend!" Italy said, hugging Germany. "Let's go and play football!"

"I'm meeting England and France," Germany said. "We must discuss our economies."

"Maybe they'd like to play football too! They could be on one team and we could be on another!"

"Look how well that went the last time," Germany muttered, and winced. He really couldn't believe he'd said that.

Italy looked at him oddly and then started to laugh. "Germany!" he said. "That's awful! But this'd be different. I'm actually _good_ at football."

"One quick game," Germany said. "And you don't tell anyone I said that."

 

*

 

_"Lift your sword! Higher! No, that is not the defensive position I demonstrated, is it? Begin again. And, attack."_

_He obeys, hacking at the pell, then turns to find his instructor ready, sword in his slender, long-fingered hand. They spar, steel ringing against steel, their feet sure and steady on the cobbles._

_"You're getting better. Keep practicing. We _have_ to fight, you know that."_

_Yes, he thinks he says. He knows his instructor's name, but it makes no sense, not here. The young man strolls back into the house, and soon music can be faintly heard._

_Outside, he practices swordplay._

 

*

 

"Dinner is ready!" Italy announced happily.

As casually as possible, Germany headed for the kitchen, and found his elbow taken in a firm grip as Italy grinned up at him and steered him to the dining room without even allowing a peek through the kitchen door. _Huh_, Germany thought. He didn't think he'd been _that_ obvious. He'd only intruded once to "get a glass of water" and once to "get a beer" and the third time, Italy had shoved a chair under the door-handle to keep him out.

Dinner was delicious.

When he nervously checked afterwards, the kitchen was pristine.

 

*

 

_A child is singing in the meadow, spinning round and round in a flurry of sunlit flying skirts. He can't hear the words, just the melody, a simple tune that repeats a rising line like birdsong. He sits in the warm grass watching the hovering summer insects and the far-off dancing child. There is no other sound, not even when he strains to catch the distant rumble of traffic._

_He taps out the melody on his knee. Looking down, his hand is plump and short-fingered, a child's hand despite the sword calluses. _

_In the meadow, the other child sings on._

 

*

 

The guest bedroom was shabby and needed to be painted.

"I'll help!" Italy said.

Germany was sceptical, hearing Italy whine about how heavy the furniture was; then the room was clear and Germany blinked at Italy's speed and ease in applying the undercoat. The next day, Italy arrived with _lots_ of paint.

"Trust me," he smiled.

The mural was almost done when Germany looked in again, a bright Alpine meadow across one wall. He gingerly helped do the clouds, Italy's paint-splattered hand on his, guiding the brush.

All day, he remembered the touch of warm fingers on his own.

 

*

 

_He is clumsy, his hands unsuited for delicate work. His tutor sighs, and shoos him from the harpsichord, back out to sword practice. At the edge of the yard, the child from the meadow sits, sketching on a piece of wood. He creeps closer to look at the charcoal lines._

_It's him. He wonders if it's proper for servants to make drawings of their masters, but wonders more if he really looks as sad as he does in the sketch. The child holds out a blank scrap of wood and some charcoal._

_He takes them cautiously and the child smiles._

 

*

 

"It's rather like the end of _The Wizard of Oz_," Germany said, wondering just how drunk he really was. "You know, Dorothy stops dreaming and says _You were there, and you were there_?"

"So who was I in your dream?" Italy said, curling up and resting his head on Germany's leg.

"A girl. I think."

Italy giggled helplessly, which Germany felt he deserved. "A _girl?_ Germany, would you like me better as a girl?"

_Just _try_ for once to make a joke_, Germany told himself. "You know I've always loved you since oh-nine-hundred."

Italy looked at him _very_ oddly.

 

*

 

_He is leaving, and the day is overcast. The child is crying, clinging on to his arm, stuttering, begging him not to go._

_"I'll come back," he promises._

_"What will I do without you?" the child wails, the Venetian accent rising in strength._

_They lean forward at the same moment, and he closes his eyes at the touch of warm, dry lips against his own. He wants to stay, but he cannot draw or play the harpsichord. He is made for more practical matters. _

_He fits their palms together. Their hands are much the same size, though his are squarer._


End file.
